


Ever Since Texas

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: BBQ, Car Sex, Don't Mess With Texas, M/M, Making Out, Shirt Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: I originally planned to write a cute&sweet 500 word ficlet about Timmy and Armie buying and wearing not!matching shirts in Austin.Instead, here's 3,000 words about shirt shopping, Armie's mom, Texas food and car sex.I'm Armie/Timmy shipper trash and I'm ok with it. xx





	Ever Since Texas

It you had asked Tim at any point in his life, where the last place on Earth you could expect to find him would be, Texas would rank at the top of the list.

And yet he had been here once a year for the last 3, 4 years? A yearly ritual almost like France.

But this wasn’t quite Texas, at least not the Texas he had heard about, but never really thought about growing up in-between steel on a faraway urban island. There were cowboy hats, cowboy boots and bar-b-que but there were also cocktail bars where drinks were lit on fire and there were food trucks and art museums with Andy Warhol and Cy Twombly sitting side by side. 

This was Texas adjacent.                                              

Armie was Texas adjacent.

He understood SXSW. He had been there, done that. He had a lot of sex on that trip, his last time in Texas.

He knew he had never really seen the _real_ Texas.

He was torn between being an open-minded, free-wheeling traveler and being unsure of a place where he was on the outskirts, where it wasn’t so much a melting pot as the slow burn of an outdated, dying world.

Tim fit in everywhere, but that old world seemed small.

Austin was new world, with just enough of the old world, the old ways to seem cool, vintage, just enough guitar shops and churches-turned-bars to remind you that you were in Texas, a blazing blue dot on a blood red map.

It felt like if Portland and Brooklyn had a bastard child who ran away from home at 16 to join a country music band, a rough only around the edges kid who smoked weed more than they actually played music.

Tim knew his director-idols and film-fathers hailed from this land, he knew _Giant_ was filmed in Marfa.

He knew Armie had a love-hate relationship with the place he suddenly found himself walking around in.

He had come here to celebrate Armie, time to return the favor, the bill had come due.

Tim had answered the phone at first glance, seeing Armie’s name on the all black screen, finger sliding across the big black window in one swift motion.

 _“Of course man, of course,”_ he had answered too quickly.

 _“Timmy in Texas!”_ Armie sounded happy.

Now Armie could strut, he could show off, he could boast and brag and point and say _“they have decent tacos, I got some fucking good beer there,”_ and _“holy shit I got so fucked up there once, so and so had to carry me out, I can barely remember what anything but the sidewalk looked like.”_

Tim sat beside Armie at lunch, a room full of people he had no fucking idea who they were, and then some cinema gods, and then Armie’s Mom.

 _“Dru, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”_ The words had fallen out of his mouth in an up and down rhythm that he had rehearsed in his head a thousand times, formal but friendly, warm but spoken from a safe distance.

 _“Armie’s told me so much about you,”_ Also rehearsed, Tim could tell.

 _He’s told you nothing about me._  Thought but unspoken.

 _“We’re all so glad you’re here.”_  We? A unit now.

_“I mean, Armie is so glad.”_

Was he?

 _“Well, you know, this is what Moms do.”_ Resigned. Boasting.

_You who called him possessed for loving outside your bounds._

Tim watched, glared at her retreating back, didn’t care who saw him and the face he made. Disgust and boredom, sadness.

How could something so loving come from something so tightly wound, unlovable?

At least he had checked that duty off his list for all eternity. They did not speak again the rest of the lunch.

 He spoke to no one but Armie, barely touched his food, too busy talking, laughing.

They may as well have been seated on one of Saturn’s rings, everyone else Earth bound.

Then there had been the speech, the presenting of an award to Armie.

He had never spoken to Armie in that way, from the stage to the front row, but he was well versed in speaking to him in intimate but public expressions. That was their love language.

He had gone on way too long, longer than Armie’s acceptance speech, but it was a tribute after all and he could have stayed up there for fucking hours if they, if someone had let him.

Nothing he said came out the way he wanted it to, nothing about that moment was elegant or professional, not at all polished, the paper, the teleprompter rendered useless as soon as he stepped behind the podium.

Why was Armie so much better at this than him?

Why had he forgotten, why had he lost all sense of public speaking ability, of stage speaking and training when faced with why Armie deserved something good? So much for projecting, so much for speaking to the back row. He only cared if one person heard and understood him.

He had every excuse, every reason to look nowhere but at Armie and so he did.

He had meant it when he said it was a relationship unlike any other.

_Unlike any other._

He had not meant, in any world or universe, for his voice to do what it did, catching on some swallowed emotion, some lost, fragile memory forced into the present and re-packaged as something else entirely.

He was ashamed at how his former teachers would wear him down if they saw this moment. But if they were feeling generous, maybe praise him for the passing resemblance to honesty.

The almost spilled secrets of late night talks in Armie’s apartment were caught just in time, saved with an _“I love you, man”_ directed with a pointed finger and hunched posture at the front row.

Some secrets were worth keeping.

He could get away with it, being the kid in the room of adults, the boy wonder in a room full of super heroes. His _rambling, bumbling, almost crying over whatever it was this time, Timothee,_ would be re-written as charming,  innocent, well-meaning.

Tim had smoked, but not eaten, anything green since landing in Austin.

He liked Armie here, meaning, he liked who Armie let himself be in Texas. Wide, open spaces suited him, the emptiness filled with things he loved, familiar things, music Tim had never heard in his life, hot, humid sun in early March.

White lights strung from food truck to food truck, the air always smelled like something sweet and salty, music from every corner until it all mixed into one jumbled, bluesy, twangy, mess. It was like a redneck-hipster boom box.

Tim gleefully shoved scalding hot queso spread thick on tortilla chips into his mouth sideways and the right way, washed down by the strongest margaritas he’d ever had in his life. He licked his fingers to get every last drop of cheese, sauce and salt, all bad things that he let himself have over and over again.

There was a store that Armie insisted they just _had_ to go to, and Tim had died laughing at the sign out front.

“Threads is spelled with a _Z_?!”

“ _Triple_ Z, thank you very much,” Armie held the door open, swatting Tim on the ass with a book he had bought next door, _Devil’s Bargain._

“I feel like being pissed off,” when Tim raised his eyebrow at his choice.

Texas tacky and delicious inside, a disco ball hung from the ceiling and a sign saying _Fuck Me Up 2018_ greeted them as soon as they walked in.

Finally alone.

Armie’s buddies begged off, too hungover and lazy to go a store they had all been to a thousand times, Elizabeth meeting with the panel she would be speaking on in the days to come.

 _Perfect time to shop,_ Armie said. Tim agreed.

The store was entirely Armie. They sold hot sauce and leather wallets with the word _Fuck_ all over them. Tim stopped and stared at a desk template that plainly said _Make Today Your Bitch._

“Jesus, Armie, this place is crazy.”

“Timmy, come here.” Armie beckoned him over to a corner where men’s shirts were, hanging on racks and against the wall, all variations of plaid with all sorts of characters on them, Bigfoot, King Kong, Sasquatch, horses and giraffes.

“Here, try this on.” Armie took a shirt off the hanger _(Sasquatch, off white, soft plaid)_ and tossed it at Tim, it landed half in his hand, half on his face.

He looked at the tag. Armie knew his size.

Tim turned towards a nearby dressing room, not really a room so much as an Aztec style blanket thrown over a door to god knows where, shirt thrown over his shoulder.

Armie laughed, short, not giving permission to leave. “Where are you going? I wanna see how it looks on you.”

Armie flopped down on a couch in the middle of the store, legs spread wide, arms reaching out on both sides across the back, completely at home.

“Right here?”

Armie looked around. “Unless you wanted to just walk out with it.”

Tim made a noise with his mouth, a small click of his tongue between his teeth that meant, _you’re being ridiculous_ and did a small shy half spin, rolling his eyes as he unbuttoned the shirt.

“And no under shirt,” Armie put one foot on top of his other knee.

Tim looked at him, blinking slowly, a cat quietly sizing up a nearby human.

They were alone in the store, only the guy behind the counter wearing headphones was there, but not really there at all and Armie didn’t seem to give a shit either way.

He motioned towards Tim. “What are you waiting for? A formal invitation?”

Tim shook his head, mumbled. “Never from you.”

Armie looked stricken. “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

Tim shrugged, tore his thin t-shirt shirt off, leaving it in a mess on the deer skin rug under foot. If this was what he wanted, he could have it.

Tim pulled on the silly plaid shirt decorated with a mythical, imaginary creature, _just like me,_ he thought, sullen all of a sudden, the feeling coming from nowhere, hitting him under the chin, the melancholy.

He buttoned it slowly, facing Armie, hoping and praying this was torture of some kind.

He looked up at him through 3 ringlets, fingers still on the clasp-like buttons, but Armie was anything but frustrated. He sat perfectly still, eyes glassy, lips parted, one hand rubbing the back of his head and neck.

The shirt was finally buttoned and Armie made a sound, pleased.

“It fits,” was all Tim could think to say. He pulled at the bottom of the shirt, stretching it across his thin stomach and chest.

Armie nodded. “That it does.”  

Tim watched him swallow, the muscles in his neck moving rough, slow.

“Do you like it?”

Tim laughed. “It’s fucking crazy, I love it.” There it was, the joy again, bubbling up from a well Armie had dug inside him years ago.

Armie hopped up off the couch, voice no longer quiet, no longer special and just for him, but booming, wanting, needing to be seen, heard.

“Keep it on! Let’s load up and get outta here.”

Then Armie was moving around the store with an armful of shirts, one close to, almost just like, but not _quite_ like the one he had picked out for him. Just different enough to be the same.

Tim looked at the shirt on the counter, small smile, he put a single finger on top of the fabric.

“What’s this?”

Armie looked down, bending his American Express card between his hands, bite marks on one side where Ford had chewed on it in a moment of superior parental supervision.

“A shirt.”

Tim nodded, hand under his chin. “Yeah, it is.”

He looked at Armie, an unspoken exchange between them happened so fast that no one would have noticed, not even their other beloved ones.

_It’s ours._

Tim looked around the store, not wanting to leave, not wanting to break the spell of this try-too-hard-place that smelled like leather and weed.

“What? No cowboy boots?”

Armie snorted, watching the pile of shirts disappear into bags under tattooed hands.

“I’ve seen you in cowboy boots.”

Tim looked up at him.

“Oh yeah. Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Armie whipped out his phone, pulling up a stream of texts, no, _screen shots of texts_ and practically shoved the phone in Tim’s face.

“Didn’t you text me this during that photo shoot?”

Tim pretended to read his own words on the screen, pretend-pondering, pretend-analysis of the two photos he had taken getting dressed in boots, rings and a too-big leather coat with the caption, < _Am I doing this right? > _

He had spent 5 minutes figuring out the best way the capture the outfit. A mirror and above the head shot won out.

Armie had responded in seconds, _< What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?>_

_< Yee-haw or nah?>_

_< Fuck me.> _

“Yep.”

“We talked about this. Of course I fucking saw the photos.”

“Of course.”

The guy behind the counter was staring now, waiting for Armie to swipe his damaged card, too damaged to use it turned out, so he paid with cash instead, left five bucks in a jar that was for the some guy’s band and held the door open again for Tim, shades on, both of them for the short walk across the parking lot.

He climbed into the passenger’s side, Armie tossed the bag of shirts in the backseat, for once free of car seats and yoga mats.

Armie put the key into the ignition, foot on the brake, and leaned over, kissed Tim on the mouth, pulled back and started the truck, muscle memory, all one movement.

Tim looked at him, in the process of pulling out his phone from his back pocket to plug into the dash to play his music. This was his routine when he was with Armie, windows down, Tim’s music, Armie laughing, mocking but satisfied.

They looked at one another through dark lenses.

Armie leaned back, the car idling, sighed, hand on the gear shift between them, toying with the three blue and pink hair ties wrapped around it.

Tim waited for, _I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you came. Holy shit, this is crazy. Want to hit up this place I know? Where to next? Should we head back? Shit, it’s late._

But there was none of that, just a shift of his upper body over towards Tim, one hand on his arm nearest the door, pulling him in, the other hand taking the key out of the ignition, tossing it on the dashboard.

Tim let his body fold and bend, shoving his left hand over to grab at something close by, fingernails scratching, making a terrible sound across denim on Armie’s right thigh that made his teeth hurt.

Full on, head titled to the side kissing, the car facing the road, not the store, the sound of lips parting, and tiny moans.

Tim presented his neck to Armie, head back on the seat, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his never combed hair, Armie tossing his own sunglasses in his lap, leaning up in his seat now to not just kiss but grab at Tim’s neck, pressing a thumb deep into the crease until Tim struggled to breathe.

“You have to say when, cos I’ll just keep going.” Armie’s mouth at the corner of Tim’s lips.

Tim said nothing. _Keep going,_ he thought. _Just kill me._

Armie kept pressing, pressed harder, kissing the spot directly under where his thumb punished tender skin.

“Jesus, you can take a lot,” he breathed, watching his work, watching his thumb press so hard the top of his fingernail turned white, Tim’s neck going red, and then almost purple.

Tim moved his head just enough, raised his hand to touch Armie’s wrist and he pulled back instantly. Armie kept watching the space where he had been, the skin rising up again, angry, hurt, bruising already.

“That’s gonna leave a mark.”

“You’re the one who needs to worry about that.” Words slid out of Tim, teasing but vicious.

Armie nodded.

“Let me see it,” Armie whispered, hand hovering over the buttons of Tim’s jeans.

Tim nodded and Armie dove in, snatching the button open, sliding the zipper down so fast Tim could barely see it happen, holding one side of his pants open, and using the same hand to reach in under his navy blue boxers.

“Fuck,” Armie murmured.

“I’ve been like that since I got here,” Tim said into Armie’s shoulder, relieved of his secret.

“Me too.”

Armie batted Tim’s hand away when he reached out to feel for himself.

“No. I just want you.”  

Tim sat back, feigning defeat, legs as far apart as the space allowed; lifting up his hips so Armie could reach down as far as he wanted.

“Shit,” Tim seethed.

 Armie wrapped his hand around his cock, gentle at first, then a tighter, firm grip, his fingers running underneath, Tim thought he may pass out. He squeezed his eyes shut, but no, open again so he could see himself splayed out on top of his jeans, Armie’s finger dancing, moving down, down, further, further, towards his ass, his hand tighter and tighter on his cock.

“You gotta finish me off,” Tim panted. He shook his head in advance of any argument Armie was going to make, but none was made.

Armie had his hand on the base, so hard it was painful but that’s how Tim liked it.  Just the sight of his head lowering, nearing the tip of his dick make Tim’s hips twitch, his legs shake. He had no shame any more.

He licked him, once, twice, and then put his entire mouth on Tim, but it was the kiss that did it, the kiss at the tip while Armie held on so tight Tim thought he would break something, cut off his blood to an important piece of him forever. It was the combination of something so sweet and tender and something so vicious, possessive that sent him spiraling, spilling out onto his boxers and Armie’s hand, his hands deep in Armie’s hair, pulling it as hard as he was getting.

He caught sight of his face in the rearview mirror, red and panting, his neck sore, his body empty.

Armie didn’t sit up right away. His own body went limp, heavy across Tim’s lap, his head on his thighs, facing away from him, not looking.

Tim bent down, planted a single kiss on the back of Armie’s neck and leaned back on the seat, closing his eyes.

They lay like that, they sat like that until well after sun down when Armie sat up, turning the car back on. The sound of the engine covered the soft sounds of Tim’s sleep and the angry freeway-air from the rolled down window erased none of Armie’s hot, clouded worries.

**Author's Note:**

> Iknowthebattle on Tumblr xx


End file.
